Terminal Compromise, Winn Schwartau [sight word books txt] 📗
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Note to the Readers of “Terminal Compromise:”
In writing a book like this, it is often difficult to distinguish
fact from fiction.
That is because the fiction is all too probable, and the facts
are unbelievable. Maybe it doesn’t matter and they’re the same
after all. Other than a few well known names and incidents, the
events in this book are fictional – to the best of my knowledge.
As I wrote this tale, I was endlessly coming upon new methods,
new tactics, new ways to wage computer warfare. I found that if
this story was to be told, I had to accept the fact that it would
always be unfinished. The battle of the computers is one without
an end in sight.
This story is an attempt to merge the facts as they are with the
possibilities. The delineation between fact and fiction is
clouded because the fiction of yesterday is the fact, the news,
of today. I expect that distinction to become hazier over the
next few years.
It is that incongruity that spawns a conjectured extrapolation
indistinguishable from reality.
The construction of the model that gave birth to this tale was
the culmination of many years of work, with a fictional narrative
being the last thing in my mind. That was an accident necessi-
tated by a need to reach the largest possible audience.
In fact, a lot of things have surprised me since “Terminal Com-
promise” was first published. It seemed that we were able to
predict a number of things including Polymorphics, Clipper Chips,
non-lethal warfare . . . and you’ll recognize a few other prog-
nostications we didn’t expect to come to pass quite yet.
The reader will soon know why.
There were many people who have been invaluable in the prepara-
tion of this document, but I’ll only mention a few. If the
reader doesn’t want to hear about my friends, please move on to
the next chapter.
Mary C. Bell. Hi, Mom. Thanks for the flashlight.
Lazarus Cuttman. The greatest editor a writer has ever had. He
kept me honest.
Miles Roban. That’s an alias. He’s the one who told me about
the real NSA. I hope he doesn’t get in trouble for what he said.
I owe him a pound of M&Ms. 2 lbs. of them. (NOTE: For over two
years, according to ‘high-up’ sources, the NSA has been and still
is looking for ‘Miles’. They haven’t found him yet, despite an
intensive internal NSA search. We need more people like ‘Miles’
who are willing to break down the conventional barriers of secu-
rity on issues that affect us all.)
Dad. God rest.
Winn Schwartau, July, 1993
“Terminal Compromise” is dedicated to:Sherra
There is no adequate way to say thank you. You are the super-glue
of the family. Let’s continue to break the rules.
I Love You
Ashley
She wrote three books before I finished the first chapter and
then became a South-Paw.
Adam
Welcome, pilgrim.
Prologue
Friday, January 12, The Year After The White House, Washington D.C.The President was furious. In all of his professional political
life, not even his closest aids or his wife had ever seen him so
totally out of character. The placid Southern confidence he
normally exuded, part well designed media image, part real, was
completely shattered.
“Are you telling me that we spent almost $4 trillion dollars,
four goddamn trillion dollars on defense, and we’re not prepared
to defend our computers? You don’t have a game plan? What the
hell have we been doing for the last 12 years?” The President
bellowed as loudly as anyone could remember. No one in the room
answered. The President glared right through each of his senior
aides.
“Damage Assessment Potential?” The President said abruptly as he
forced a fork full of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
“The Federal Reserve and most Banking transactions come to a
virtual standstill. Airlines grounded save for emergency opera-
tions. Telephone communications running at 30% or less of
capacity. No Federal payments for weeks. Do you want me to
continue?”
“No, I get the picture.”
The President wished to God he wouldn’t be remembered as the
President who allowed the United States of America to slip back-
ward 50 years. He waited for the steam in his collar to subside
before saying anything he might regret.
* Monday, August 6, 1945. JapanThe classroom was coming to order. Shinzo Ito, the 12th graders’
instructor was running a few minutes late and the students were
in a fervent discussion about the impending end to the war. And
of course it was to be a Japanese victory over the American
Mongrels.
Ito-san was only 19 years old, and most of the senior class was
only a year or two younger than he. The war had deeply affected
all of them. The children of Japan were well acquainted with
suffering and pain as families were wrenched apart – literally at
the seams, and expected to hold themselves together by the honor
that their sacrifices represented. They hardened, out of neces-
sity, in order to survive and make it through the next day, the
next week; and so they knew much about the war. Since so many of
the men had gone to war, women and children ran the country. 10
and 11 year old students from the schools worked as phone opera-
tors. It was an honorable cause, and everyone contributed; it was
only fitting. Their fathers and loved ones were fighting self-
lessly and winning the war.
Many of the children’s fathers had gone to war, valiantly, and
many had not come home. Many came home in pieces, many others,
unrecognizable. And when some fathers had gone off to war, both
they and their families knew that would never return. They were
making the Supreme Sacrifice for their country, and more impor-
tantly, a contribution to their honorable way of life.
The sons and daughters of kamikazes were treated with near rever-
ence. It was widely believed that their father’s honor was
handed down to their offspring as soon as word had been received
the mission had been successful. Albeit a suicide mission.
Taki Homosoto was one 17 year old boy so revered for his father’s
sacrifice. Taki spoke confidently about such matters, about the
war, about American atrocities, and how Japan would soon defeat
the round faced enemy. Taki had understood, on his 17th birthday
that his father would leave . . .and assuredly die as was the
goal of the kamikaze. He pretended to understand that it made
sense to him.
In the last 6 months since his father
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